


when there's nothing to prove (but so much to look forward to)

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: Prompts [6]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, but happy ending, fever era, i actually really like the thought of this?, slight angst, some small boys that are in love without knowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 22:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: 33. "Prove it."With Nothing Rhymes With Circus over, the band gets a little lost.





	when there's nothing to prove (but so much to look forward to)

**Author's Note:**

> i actually had a lot of fun writing this one! sorry it took a while but idk i like it

“You guys do realise none of this is going anywhere, right?” 

 

Spencer’s pacing back and forth in the tiny room while Jon’s sitting in an old armchair that looks like it’s been through World War III. I feel Ryan’s presence next to me but don’t turn to look at him. I can’t. The tension in the room might as well be a web, entangling the four of us. Music is the spider. 

 

We’re falling apart. 

 

“What the fuck do you suggest we do then?” 

 

I can’t help but wince at the harshness of Ryan’s voice. He’s like that too much, these days. On edge, constantly nitpicking over the tiniest details in every song. It’s tiring, but he is fucking talented and none of us can deny that. Plus, it’s good for me, in a way. It’s easier to dislike him over this than to try to hide the ridiculous crush I’ve had for years now. 

 

I’ve gotten better and better at it. They all think it’s just stage show. Oh, the benefits of being the frontman. The few stolen seconds of closeness are enough to satisfy me now; it used to be hell, having him so close but unreachable, but I’ve gotten bolder show by show. I even kissed him, once. It didn’t seem like he minded, but I’m still thinking about it, months later. It’s tough to have him sleeping just across from me in the tour bus, even if none of us has time to do much thinking once we get back after a show; we fall right asleep. 

 

No one’s asleep now, though. 

 

“Well, I don’t know,” Spencer says. He’s leaning against the wall, as far away from us as possible. He’s never been one to like conflict. “Maybe we can take a break?” 

 

Ryan huffs. Wrong answer, Spence. He’d never take a break. 

 

“I gotta go,” Jon says quietly, getting up from his armchair. “Promised Cassie I’d be home for dinner.” I glance at Ryan, who has his arms crossed in front of his chest. He says nothing; his lips are pressed together and he doesn’t look at Jon, who hurries out of the room, the door closing behind him. 

 

Spencer shoots me a concerned look, and I stand up. I can’t sit next to Ryan when he’s like this. I hate to see him upset, but there’s really nothing I can do. It’ll pass. 

 

“We— We’ll go,”I say, and Spencer reaches for the door, which is right next to him. He opens it and we’re about to walk out when I hear Ryan stand up, too. 

 

“Brendon.” I turn around and Spencer slips out quietly. He _really_ doesn’t like conflict. 

 

Ryan’s standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by guitars and spare drumsticks and picks. He doesn’t look happy, but he’s not angry anymore, either. I can tell because he hasn’t stormed out yet. He doesn’t look at me.

 

“This isn’t worth the fight, huh?” 

 

No, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds.. defeated, which is worse on so many levels. And it stirs something in me. He has no right to say that. He started this thing, this band, wrote the lyrics to our songs, taught me how to sing them. Without him, this band is nothing, and he doesn’t even have the fucking guts to admit it. He’s trying to shift the responsibility away from him, and I sure as hell won’t have that. 

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you just gonna give up because you can’t write for two weeks? That’s ridiculous, Ryan, and you know it.” What I feel doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I hammer the stupid thought of quitting out of his head. He looks up at me now, eyes bright. 

 

“You have no fucking idea what it’s like,” he says, and _now_ he’s angry. “To stare at a piece of paper for hours without being able to muster anything. It’s not fucking worth it. I hate the fame anyway.”

 

“Ryan, for fuck’s sake! It is worth it,” I spit, and he seems surprised. I don’t usually yell at him. He crosses his arms again and the surprised look disappears from his face. 

 

“Prove it.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Prove it,” he repeats, but I heard him well enough the first time. “Show me why it’s worth it. Why playing alone in my room for myself to hear and no one to judge isn’t better than this. Why I have to go on to please teenage girls that I won’t ever fucking meet again.” 

 

I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what to tell him, so I cross the distance between us and do what I’ve always wanted to do. 

 

I kiss him. 

 

Our lips crash together and I see his eyes widen as I close mine, but he doesn’t pull away. I feel his body relaxing against mine and relief washes over me. He didn’t pull away. Maybe he even thought of this just as much as I have, and the idea sends a shiver down my spine. We stumble to a wall, and he lets out a small whine when I press him against it. God. The kisses are slow, like we have all the time in the world and not enough words to explain, like we’ve done this too many times to have the urgency of young lovers. He’s familiar, and yet this feeling is brand new, better than any fantasy I let myself have. I’m kissing him, finally. Three years later, almost. Our mouths part and he looks at me, eyes filled with something I don’t recognise. He smiles. Strokes my cheek with his thumb. 

 

“I guess it is worth it.” 


End file.
